An American in Scotland Page 25

  She wondered if Susanna had enough common sense left to realize what Bruce had done by burning their cotton. Did she see it as an act of revenge, patriotism, or outright stupidity?

  Or Claire? Claire adored her daughter, but what kind of life would Gloria have in a world in which her father believed mostly in retaliation? What about survival? Wasn’t that more important?

  She’d talked to both Duncan and Captain McDougal last night. This morning she and two of the seamen were delivering what foodstuffs they could spare until they replenished their supplies in Nassau. She’d almost come to tears over their generosity. Despite the fact that Duncan had been so badly treated by his American cousin, he was all for settling as much as he could on them, bags of flour, sugar, potatoes, and salted meat.

  They made their way from the Raven, past the barge she’d used to carry cotton to Charleston, and beyond to the path to the back of Glengarden. Anyone else would be grateful for their largesse, but Bruce would see it as charity. The last thing she wanted was to have him destroy the food. Maisie could make what they were giving her stretch for weeks.

  She and the two seamen from the Raven stood behind the copse of trees. When she saw Maisie throw out the dirty water from the sink into the ruins of what had once been the kitchen garden, she waved her arms.

  Maisie walked toward them slowly in a meandering way, as if searching for something on the ground.

  When she reached Rose, she shook her head.

  “Don’t you have the sense God gave a mosquito, child? This is not a safe place to be.”

  “We brought you some food, Maisie. Not that much, but enough to get you by for several weeks.”

  Maisie’s face didn’t change, but her eyes softened.

  “Do you want us to take it to the cold house?”

  “Ain’t nothing there, child. It’d be funny if I was seen going in there when everybody knows it’s empty. Bring it into the kitchen. I’ll find places to put it where no one will find it.”

  They followed her back to the house and as quiet as little mice laid the bags of food on the big oak table.

  “Aren’t they going to wonder where it all came from?”

  Maisie shook her head. “No more than when Benny steals a pig or picks a few chickens from a neighbor’s place. Sometimes I think they just expect food to appear on their plate like magic. Miss Susanna said she wanted some apple tarts the other day.” Maisie sighed. “She doesn’t seem to understand that I don’t have anything to make apple tarts.”

  “Well, at least this way Benny doesn’t end up getting shot trying to feed you.”

  “I expect some folks think they have a critter on the loose, one who steals their livestock.”

  Maisie hugged her when they were done laying out the food and gave her another warning.

  “You go on now, Miss Rose. You deserve to have your own life. You’ve done as much as you can here.”

  Rose signaled to the two seamen. “Go on back to the Raven,” she said. “I’m right behind you.”

  “We were told not to leave you, ma’am.”

  “I’ll be right there. Just give me a minute? Please.”

  They left the kitchen, but they weren’t all that quick about returning to the Raven. She watched them out the window for a little while, then turned her gaze to Maisie.

  The older woman had always been a source of comfort, a gentle soul with endless compassion, just like Old Betsy. How could they care about others when they’d been treated so harshly? When they’d been owned?

  “We’re leaving this morning, Maisie. Won’t you come with us?”

  The other woman shook her head. “Not as long as my Phibba’s here.”

  Rose nodded. She understood Maisie’s devotion to her child even after death. Perhaps some of it was guilt, that she hadn’t been able to save her. Or perhaps it was simply a case of Maisie still being protective about someone she loved.

  “I’m sorry about the cotton,” Maisie said. “I had to tell.”

  “I know you did and I don’t blame you, Maisie.”

  She didn’t know what kind of coercion Bruce had used, but it had been something. Otherwise, Maisie would never have told him about the trips to Charleston.

  “But I didn’t tell him about both warehouses.”

  She stared at the older woman. They’d had to divide the crop into two warehouses only because of space limitations. One of them held three hundred bales. The other seven hundred.

  “How many bales did he get, Maisie?” she asked.

  The older woman looked amused as she answered. “I imagine he burned three hundreds or thereabout.”

  It had never occurred to her that Bruce had been ignorant about the second warehouse. Nor had she bothered to check it because the same man owned both buildings. Surely he would have told Bruce about the rest of his cotton? Evidently he hadn’t, because there were still seven hundred bales in Charleston.

  She had to leave, but how could she possibly thank Maisie for everything she’d done? Her kindness, her wisdom, her steadfast guidance had been a mainstay. She couldn’t have borne the last two years at Glengarden without her.

  “I’ll miss you, Maisie,” she said.

  “If you don’t get going, you won’t have a chance,” Maisie said, her own eyes a deeper brown for her tears. “Go on with you now.”

  She did, walking away with thoughts not of what she was leaving, but what she was facing, a life of freedom and love.

  “You just can’t obey, can you, Rose? I told you to leave Glengarden, but of course you have to ignore me.”

  She shouldn’t have been so occupied in her thoughts. If she hadn’t been, she would have seen Bruce standing on the path to the river.

  “What is it about your nature that makes you so stubborn? Claire isn’t like you. Are you sure you’re really her sister and not some foundling your parents found on the street?”

  He leaned forward against his crutches, his smile eerie, as if an expression of welcome had been pasted over a face of evil.

  She knew that look. Sometimes it had been the only warning prior to an act of cruelty.

  The slaves of Glengarden were aware of that expression, had learned how to behave once they saw it. Then, a man’s gaze never left the ground. His shoulders slumped. Men who were taller than Bruce bent their knees to equalize their heights or to appear shorter. Each person knew never to look up, and when addressed—­if they were unfortunate enough to be known by name—­they answered quickly, eyes averted.

  She’d never learned the trait of being submissive, especially not to Bruce.

  She should have been. She should always have been more afraid. Fool that she’d been, she thought her safety lay in Claire. She believed that Bruce would never truly hurt her because she was Claire’s sister. Knowing what she knew now, she realized the true extent of her past jeopardy. He could probably have killed her at any time and Claire would have somehow justified it to herself.

  She straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath and addressed him.

  “I’m leaving, Bruce. You’ll get your wish. You’ll never see me again.”

  “Ah, Rose. If only I believed you.”

  He took a few steps toward her. She had to stop herself from retreating. She wouldn’t show fear now. The Raven was only a short distance away and so was Duncan.

  “You see, I have some familiarity with your word, and it means nothing. ‘No, Bruce, I won’t talk to the slaves.’ ‘No, Bruce I won’t teach my maid to read.’ ‘No, Bruce, I won’t go down to the cabins.’ ”

  He was within arm’s reach now. She stepped aside, into the weeds and tall grass alongside the path.

  “How can I believe you now, Rose?”

  “Because I’m leaving,” she said. “I’ll never return to Glengarden.”

  The most incredible sense of freedom surged
through her at those words. Was that how the others had felt when they left? As if a door to a prison had been opened? She would never have to see this place ever again. She wasn’t going to think about it. If someone ever questioned her past, she would never mention Glengarden. Two years of her life would somehow have to be expunged.

  He took another step toward her.

  “I learned a great deal when I went to war. You never asked about my experiences. I was a little disappointed at that.”

  She had no desire to hear about the cruelties he’d inflicted on Union soldiers.

  “Sometimes you just can’t depend on circumstances. You have to manipulate them to your own desires. Otherwise, you’re always taking a chance, and chance can be such a fickle bitch.”

  “I’m leaving, Bruce.”

  She wasn’t listening to him. She didn’t have to listen to him. Let him pontificate to his heart’s desire to someone else. She never had to hear his voice again. Nor would she ever have to worry about Bruce MacIain.

  He caught her as she moved past him.

  “Let me go,” she said, trying to pull away. His fingers dug into her arm until she was certain she’d have bruises from his grip.

  “Always dictating to me. Tell me, do you never get tired of issuing orders? Do you tell your lover what to do, Rose? Does he listen, like a lapdog?”

  “Let me go, Bruce,” she said, trying to remain calm.

  Despite being on crutches and having lost a leg, he was still a strong man. She tried to pull away, but his grip only tightened.

  “Or you’ll do what? Release my slaves? Try to bankrupt me? Sell my cotton to some trumped up nobody? Oh, that’s right, you’ve already done that.”

  “I’m leaving. You can tell yourself that all your problems are my fault. I suppose you’ll blame the loss of your leg on me, too. You’ll figure out some way to do that, I’m sure.”

  “You’ve been a bitch from the day you arrived and you’ll be a bitch until the day you die, won’t you?”

  She would never be his definition of a southern lady, one who accepted that a man was superior in every way. She and her brothers had had boisterous arguments. More than once she and her father had disagreed, but instead of castigating her for having an opinion, he seemed to enjoy their verbal sparring.

  Even Duncan—­ Her thoughts came full stop. Duncan challenged her, goaded her, smiled when she lost her temper. He’d even laughed more than once when she argued a point, as if he were proud of her spirit.

  Bruce, on the other hand, was almost petulant when he didn’t get his way or when someone dared to venture a thought not in line with his, especially when a woman spoke up.

  He grinned again, and she felt a premonitory shiver travel from the back of her neck all the way down her spine.

  Duncan was only a little distance away. That’s all she had to remember. Why hadn’t she just run away from Bruce? He wouldn’t have been able to catch up with her.

  “You should have never come back.”

  “What was I supposed to do, Bruce, sit here and genteelly starve? We had no food or any way to grow any. Would you rather us depend on charity? We had a fortune in cotton in the warehouse. Why not sell it? But you chose to burn it. What a stupid thing to do.”

  She didn’t see the blow before it came. He backhanded her so hard she fell to the ground, dazed. When he raised one of his crutches to strike her, she tried to roll away, but couldn’t move fast enough.

  He struck her with the end of the crutch, where bolts held the wood strips together. She could feel the blood trickle down from the cut on her cheek as he hit her once more.

  His face was contorted into a mask of rage as he struck her again and again.

  He was going to kill her unless she got away. She tried to get up, but a wave of dizziness made her fall back. She tried to call out but her voice sounded feeble. Wiping away the blood from her eyes, she finally made it to her knees.

  When he came closer, she put up both her hands to ward him off, but couldn’t push him away. Retrieving something from his pocket, he wound it around her neck and knotted it. A rope of some sort. No, smaller than a rope, but woven just the same. She raised her hands, trying to get her fingers between the rope and her neck.

  He struck her again.

  The battle between them was silent. No more insults. No more responses. She couldn’t remain upright for long without being dizzy. He struck her again and she fell into the weeds. He jerked on the rope now tied to the crossbar of his crutch to rouse her.

  This time he was going to kill her.

  “I’ve been thinking about this ever since you came back, Rose. I have a certain disability, you see, but I thought there must be a way to get you to do what I wanted. What better way to treat a bitch than like a bitch? You put a leash on a dog, don’t you? This is your new leash. I’m half tempted to parade you around Glengarden like this, but there are no more slaves to see you. Pity.”

  He began to walk, pulling on the rope and choking her with each step. Every time she resisted, the rope tightened, cutting off her air. She focused on the gravel path beneath her knees, wiping away the blood from her face. She couldn’t speak, could barely breathe, but scuttled along the ground like a crab to keep up with him. Twice she lost her balance and fell over. He didn’t stop, only jerked the leash even tighter. She had to keep up with him or be strangled.

  “Please.” The sound came out like a hoarse whisper.

  “Please? Oh, I do please, Rose. I please myself in this instance. I please myself to rid Glengarden of you once and for all.”

  He raised the crutch and struck her again. For a few seconds, maybe longer, she managed to get to her knees again, inching along as he continued down the path to the east side of the house. She knew where he was going: the cold house.

  It wasn’t enough, then, that she wanted to be gone from here even more than he wanted her away from Glengarden. He was going to punish her for not being his slave, for daring to speak up, for thinking for herself. This punishment had nothing to do with being a woman and everything to do with not being in awe of Bruce MacIain.

  Dear God, please let me live to see Duncan again, if only to tell him how much I love him.

  Bruce stopped and both hands went to her throat to loosen the rope. He struck her again, smiling as he did so, chuckling when he heard her moan.

  Then, from out of nowhere, he produced a pistol. Was he going to shoot her here? Please, no. Not now. Not when she’d been given a touch of joy. She’d been so looking forward to this morning, to finally leaving. Sailing away without a backward glance, her hand in Duncan’s. All her secrets were out in the open and she’d been forgiven each one.

  “Our favorite place,” he said, waving the pistol at her. “You remember the cold house, Rose. It’s empty now, all because of what you’ve done. But you know that, don’t you? Did you give everyone food for their journey? Did you give them my money?”

  He didn’t let her answer. It didn’t matter; he’d ignore anything she said. He’d made up his mind as he always had. What anyone said, or even the truth, was superfluous.

  Murder was in his eyes. It was there in the twist of his lips as he removed the key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock. The iron-­banded door was thick, both to keep in the cold and to prevent theft. Without the key it was impossible to open, and once the door was closed, the cold house was soundproof.

  “While I was off fighting the Yankees, Rose, you were doing your damnedest to ruin me and take away everything I had, weren’t you? I should never have let you into my home. You were a bitch with rabies, weren’t you?”

  He pointed the gun at her. She’d been the object of his anger enough times to know this session was going to be bad. He couldn’t be reached by words. He was a creature of rage, and until that rage was spent, he wouldn’t leave her.

  In the past, she’d
learned to keep quiet, because it made the sessions shorter. What did it matter now? She knew that whatever she said or did, he was going to kill her.

  “Get in there, Rose.”

  She turned and stepped toward the door. He suddenly pushed her the rest of the way. She tumbled down the four steps, landing on the soft dirt. With trembling hands she loosened the rope around her throat.

  “This time, I’m going to make sure you stay where I put you. No one is going to rescue you, Rose. Not your lover, no one.”

  “You can’t keep me here,” she said, her voice hoarse.

  “I’m your only male relative. I can do whatever I want, Rose, and there’s no one to stop me.”

  “Duncan will.”

  “Your lover? What a slut you are, Rose. He’ll be sailing away soon. You see, you decided to remain at Glengarden to stay with your sister and your niece.”

  Duncan wouldn’t believe that. Duncan would never believe him.

  “No one is going to release you, Rose. You can scream as long as you want. No one can hear you. Without water, you won’t last long. Maybe a few days. Everyone will think you’ve gone off with your Scot. Only you and I will know the truth.”

  She remained silent.

  The door closed, the darkness that of the grave. A moment later the key turned in the lock.

  Duncan would save her. Please God, let Duncan save her.

  MAISIE WAS putting away the food Miss Rose had brought, hiding it in corners and cubbyholes. As she was finishing up, she glanced through the kitchen window and froze.

  Bruce was there, standing on the path in front of Miss Rose.

  She left the kitchen and ducked behind one of the hedges that separated the garden from the rest of the back lawn, peering through the branches to see him strike her, then wind a rope around Miss Rose’s neck.

  The foolish girl had put herself in danger again, simply to be kind. When would she learn? Hopefully, never. The world needed angels like Miss Rose, the better to counter all the devils already here.